


Not Just a Rebound

by doctorxdonna (badxwolfxrising)



Series: Earth Girls Are So Not Easy [16]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badxwolfxrising/pseuds/doctorxdonna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor and Donna art school AU.  John Smith is an art student, and Donna is the model in his Life Drawing class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Just a Rebound

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this as a one-shot, inspired by otp--prompt's on tumblr, prompt "Person A takes an art class and is surprised to see that Person B is the nude model during the anatomy study."

It was his fault, completely. He was looking down at his phone in disbelief, at the text message that had made the bottom drop out of his world.

[I’m sorry John, but this isn’t working out. I think we’re better off as friends. Please don’t hate me, I still love and care about you, I just can’t do a romantic relationship right now. Please come by to get your stuff tomorrow while I’m at work. -Rose]

“Oi mate, watch where the hell you’re going!”

The angry voice pierced the fog in his brain, and he looked up, startled. A fuming redhead in a light green dress was wearing the majority of his latte.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed, grabbing up a handful of napkins. He reached out to blot at the coffee without thinking about it, but the redhead seized him by the wrists.

“Hands!” she said, taking the napkins from him and blotting at the stain on her dress.

“Jesus, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so sorry. I got an upsetting text message, and I wasn’t paying attention,” he babbled nervously, raking a hand through his hair.

“Is everything okay?” the redhead asked, the expression on her face softening slightly.

“Not really. My roommate wants me to move out. And my girlfriend broke up with me. They’re the same person, incidentally,” he said.

“She broke up with you via text? Blimey mate, that’s rough. I’m sorry,” she said, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Let me buy you another coffee.”

He stared at her, confused. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you spilled your latte all over my brand new dress, and you’re still having a worse day than I am. Besides, I can tell my friends later that I bought a fit bloke a coffee this morning,” she said, grinning cheekily.

He blushed. “You think I’m fit?”

She laughed. “A bit on the thin side, Mr. Stringbean. But other than that...nice smile, deep brown eyes, great hair. So yeah...pretty fit, I’d say. I wouldn’t worry so much about your girlfriend or your living situation. I’m sure some other bird would be happy to scoop you up and bring you back to her nest.”

“Can I buy you a drink sometime?” he blurted.

She smiled at him sadly. “I’m afraid not. I’m not looking to be anyone’s bandage girl or rebound. Not any more. I have more self respect than that. Anyway, take a fiver. Get yourself a coffee. And keep your chin up. The day can only get better from here.”

And then she was gone. He stared after her, dazed. He didn’t even know her name, but he knew one thing for certain: he wanted her. Not as a rebound, though. More than that. She seemed fiery, passionate, confident, self-assured. It was attractive as hell, honestly. Rose was already at the back of his mind as he left the coffee shop, scheming on how he could possibly find out the mysterious redhead’s name.

* * * * *

He got his opportunity just a few days later, at his Friday night Life Drawing class. She stepped out from behind the partition screen and took a seat on the chair at the center of the stage. He was caught off guard, but immediately recognized her as the woman from the coffee shop. She arranged her body carefully, crossing her legs and letting her hands grip the edge of the chair as she pushed her chest up and out.

His easel was set up about a foot and a half from the stage, which was close enough to see the mole on her left breast. Actually, it was close enough to get a good eyeful of all her various features-her pale, porcelain complexion, her generous lips, her piercing blue eyes, her voluptuous curves. No wonder she was a model-she had a figure that would make Peter Paul Ruben himself weep. He forced his face into an impassive mask as he put pencil to paper.

“Switch!” the instructor called out, and he flipped the page to reveal another sheet of clean white paper. On the stage, the model was bracing her hands on the back of the chair, legs spread wide.

He noted, with shaking hands, that she really was ginger, if the thatch of curls between her thighs was anything to go by. He had personally only known one woman who had dyed her pubic hair, and he didn’t actually know her personally, only by proxy. One of his mates, a lesbian who went by the nickname Vastra (the significance of which she refused to explain), had known a girl with a robin’s egg blue landing strip. She had referred to this girl only as “Tiffany Box”. The joke had gone over his head the first time. Vastra had had to explain to him that the girl’s pubes had been the same iconic shade of blue used by couture jewelry makers, Tiffany and Co. He flushed pink at the memory.

“Switch!”

He managed to retain his cool throughout the rest of the class. And by what must have been some sort of divine providence, when he went out to his car, she was sitting at the bus stop, smoking a cigarette.

“Hey,” he said, walking over to her, his keys hanging from his hand.

She looked up, and stubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe. She was wearing dark blue jeans and a brown leather jacket over top a grey scoop neck jumper and purple vest top. The clothes fit her well, but did an excellent job of hiding her shapely form.

“Oh, it’s you. Thought I recognized you back in there. Latte guy,” she said, offering him a smile.

“It’s John, actually. John Smith. And you are…?” he asked hopefully.

“Donna. Donna Noble,” she said, extending her hand to him. 

He thought she probably intended to shake his hand, but he instead grasped her fingers and brought her hand up to his lips. “The pleasure is all mine, Donna Noble.”

She laughed, but did not make an effort to withdraw her hand. He finally dropped it back down and stared shyly at his feet, gone suddenly self-conscious. “Can I give you a ride home?”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and smiled at him. “I suppose. My friend Nerys was supposed to pick me up, but she apparently met up with a bloke in a bar, and they went home together. So here I sit. I was thinking, that is, if you’re still offering, maybe before you take me home we can go for that drink you were talking about?”

“What made you change your mind?” he asked.

She shifted her eyes away from him. “No reason.”

“Come on, cards on the table, woman. The other day you turned me down because you said you didn’t want to be somebody’s rebound. So what changed?”

Her bottom lip jutted out defiantly. “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”

He decided not to press the issue further, because he did, after all, want to take her out for a drink. Maybe after they’d had that drink, her lips would loosen a little and she might reveal what had caused her change of heart.

“Yeah, alright. Hop in,” he said, gesturing to his vintage 1970s canary-yellow roadster.

Donna laughed. “ _That’s_ your car?”

He bristled. “Yes, that’s my car. It belonged to my uncle. It was the only thing he left to anyone, and he left it to me.”

She rolled her eyes at him good naturedly. “And I suppose it’s name is Delores.”

“Bessie, actually,” he said, climbing in on the driver’s side. Donna slid onto the passenger seat, and he put the car in reverse and pulled out of the car park. “So where are we going?”

“There’s a pub right around the corner from my flat. Go all the way to the end of this street, hang a left, go about five miles, and it’ll be on the corner, right across from an electronics store and a barber’s shop,” she said.

He followed her directions, but they did not chat-it was a bit difficult to hear, over the sound of the wind whipping through the open car. He finally pulled up to the kerb directly in front of the pub, a tiny hole in the wall place denoted by a faded sign on the door that read ‘The Bird-in-Hand’.

“Interesting name,” he noted, as they slipped inside the dimly lit building Most of the overhead lights had blown out, and the only source of illumination were the neon beer signs on the back of the bar. There were only a few patrons in the place, and they had their pick of open seats at the bar.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked, a smiling blond in a forest green polo shirt who looked remarkably like the most current James Bond.

“I’ll have a sidecar, please, and my friend here will have…?” Donna said, turning to him.

“A Moscow Mule,” he answered, not really thinking about it.

“Coming right up,” the bartender said, turning away to make their drinks.

“A Moscow Mule, eh? Never heard of it,” Donna said conversationally.

“It’s sometimes referred to as a vodka buck, but it’s vodka, ginger beer, and lime, sometimes mint,” he said, as the bartender set a frosty copper mug down in front of him before setting Donna’s drink in front of her.

“It comes in a special cup?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s the traditional way to serve them, popularized by the guy who created the drink back in the 50s. A Moscow Mule is always served in a copper mug. Want to try it?” he asked, nudging the mug her direction.

She picked up the drink, and sniffed it suspiciously, before taking a tiny sip. “Spicy,” she commented, passing the mug back to him.

“Yeah, that’s the ginger beer. They call it a Moscow Mule because the drink is supposed to kick, like a mule,” he explained.

She laughed. “You’re well versed on cocktails.”

He smiled ruefully. “My ex was, is, a bartender.”

“What was her name?” Donna asked, picking the orange wedge from the edge of her glass and sucking the juice out of it.

John realized he was staring with his mouth hanging open, and he shut it, rather abruptly. “Rose,” he said. “Her name was Rose.”

“Well, if you don’t mind me being so forward, Rose was an idiot to let you go. You seem like a real decent bloke. And very intelligent, too,” Donna said, offering him a smile.

He laughed, and shrugged. “People always accuse me of being a bit of a nerd. Or a geek. Probably a little of both column A and B, to be honest,” he admitted.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling.

“Of course,” he stuttered as her hand came to rest on his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch.

“I’m a sapiosexual,” she whispered in his ear.

“Oh?” he gulped. “Well, as it turns out...so am I.”

She leaned back then, back against her seat, and took a sip of her drink. A drop slipped down her lip, and the corner of her tongue darted out and caught it before it could roll down her chin. This time, he didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was staring at her raptly. When she caught his eye, he swallowed hard and threw back the rest of his drink.

“Would you like to get out of here, maybe go somewhere?” he asked with more bravado than he felt.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she replied, grinning. “My flat’s less than a block away. It’s not much more than a bedsit, but I live alone.”

“Right,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Good.”

He slapped two ten pound notes down on the top of the bar, and grabbed Donna’s hand, not bothering to wait for his change. Out in the street, something seemed to overtake the both of them, and they ran the rest of the way to her flat, giggling like school girls. Out on the landing, John fidgeted nervously while Donna fumbled with her keys, finally finding the right one and sliding it home into the lock. The door shuddered open with an audible squeak, and they slipped inside, Donna slamming the door behind them. Once inside, they wasted no time fumbling out of their clothing. He barely had time to take off his glasses and place them on the table by the door before she was yanking him against her. They stumbled backwards together across the room, snogging passionately, as Donna steered them in the direction of her bed. They collapsed onto it in a tangle of limbs and resumed the work of plundering each other’s mouths with their tongues, their hands skating urgently across each other’s bodies. Donna slid her lips away from his and angled her head into the space between his jaw and shoulder. She pressed her lips against the side of his neck and began nibbling and sucking, leaving the delicate skin there bruised and purple. She kissed her way across his collarbones and down his torso. Her tongue flickered around his navel, and traced a wet trail down his belly, between his legs. He was already painfully hard, and she took him into her mouth in one go, swallowing him whole. His hands fisted the sheets, curling and uncurling as Donna licked and sucked his cock like her life depended on it. But it wasn’t enough for him.

“Sit on my face,” he growled.

“Hmm?” Donna said, raising her head, her lips still wrapped around his length.

“Sit. On. My. Face,” he repeated, his voice gravelly.

Uncertainly, Donna shifted herself from between his legs, unfolding her body to lie parallel to him, her feet near his head. He grabbed her by the ankles, yanking her up towards him even as he was rolling her body inwards. She was now lying on top of him, her breasts pressed against his stomach, her legs spread above his head, and her groin pressed tight against his face. She shuddered, feeling his tongue circling her clit. The sensation was proving rather distracting, as she took him back into her mouth. The angle was also quite a bit more awkward for her to continue going down on him, though she managed to keep it up for a while, keeping herself balanced by pressing her hands into the bed on either side of his hips. But his tongue...oh God, _his tongue_. The things his lips and tongue were doing were enough to distract her from the ticklish sensation of his hair brushing against her thighs, which were currently trembling. Heat pooled low in her belly, and then shot through her, drawing her body taut as a violin string. He popped out of her mouth, and she shuddered and shook against him with the force of her orgasm. She rolled off of him and laid panting weakly by his side.

“Do you have protection?” he asked, turning so they were both facing the end of the bed.

“Don’t need it, so long as you’re clean,” she said. “I have a three year implant.”

“Oh, that is brilliant,” he said, his mouth widening in a grin, his lips still moist and pink with her juices.

“You are clean, aren’t you?” she asked.

“As a whistle. Rose always insisted on using condoms. She was too scatterbrained to remember to take a pill every day,” he said.

“Well in that case,” Donna said, wrapping her arms around him and throwing her leg over his hip. “Please shag me rotten.”

He gazed down on her, his eyes dark. “I would love to. But first, tell me why you changed your mind.”

She sighed, and pushed back from him. “What’s it to ya?”

“I just want to know, that’s all. A girl does a complete 360 on wanting to sleep with me, I’m usually curious to know why,” he said, pulling her back to him.

Her breath whooshed out of her. “My friend Nerys, the one who was supposed to pick me up? The bloke she picked up at the bar was my fiance. Left me at the altar six months ago. Thought I was over him, but I suppose not. I should be, given how awful he was to me about it, but yeah...the heart feels what it feels. And I...I just needed to feel wanted. Even if it’s just for the night,” she said, tears tracking their way down her cheek.

“Oh, you are wanted,” he assured her, placing his hand under her chin and tilting her head up so that he could capture her lips with his own. “You’re beautiful. A goddess. More lovely than Venus herself.”

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered, and the tone of self-deprecation almost slew him.

“I wanted you the moment I laid eyes on you,” he said. “What incentive do I have to lie to you? You already asked me to shag you rotten.”

“Alright then. Less talking, more doing,” she said, rolling onto her back. He knelt between her thighs and guided himself to her entrance. When he hesitated, she raised her legs up and locked them around his waist, forcing him up and inside of her. His eyes fluttered closed briefly, as he was completely overwhelmed by the sensation of being inside of her. After a moment, he snapped back into himself and began moving inside her, settling into a steady rhythm. He placed his hands on either side of her shoulders, and held himself balanced above her. Every now and then, she would raise her head up and kiss him hungrily. Her hands gripped tightly at his shoulders, and she arched her back, threw back her head, and cried out words of encouragement.

“Don’t you stop, don’t you dare stop,” she commanded. “Please...faster.”

At her insistence, he picked up the pace. Their sweat-slicked bodies glided easily against each other, and his breathing grew ragged and shallow as his thrusts grew more erratic. Finally, with a guttural cry, he spilled himself inside of her before collapsing against her chest, his head pillowed by her magnificent breasts.

“Will you stay?” she asked him, not daring to hope.

“Of course I will,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her in for a languid kiss.

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought of all the ways he wanted to show Donna Noble just how beautiful she really was.


End file.
